GreenEyed Man
by Inconstant Logic
Summary: Very few know about Iceland's brother. And it's not Norway. Because despite what they think they know, the Vikings weren't the first to meet the nation. OC Ireland.


_A/N: Nope, still don't own it. Better make this quick, I'm leaving for New York in 10 minutes. So I got this idea after reading a book that said Irish monks were the first to travel to Iceland, nearly a century before the Vikings. If there're any mistakes I've made, I don't really care. I know lots of us don't like OCs, but at least this doesn't involve a romantic relationship. I didn't really edit this too much, figured I might as well just get it out there before I left. Read and review, please._

* * *

Iceland has a brother. He knows this. The rest of the nations do not.

This brother is not related to him by blood. No, he is special, because he's the first person Iceland has ever met in his achingly long life. Before the Vikings, when there weren't yet people who lived in his lands, when they simply visited for one reason or another, before quickly returning to their homelands.

The monks.

He vaguely remembered lying, curled up, on the ground, his puffin nudging him in the side. He had a young appearance, of a toddler, and yet he had _no_ memories of any time before that moment, being prodded at by a bird.

And then there were hands picking him up roughly, and the rasping sound of cloth rubbing against itself, and he was suddenly eye to eye with a grinning man. For centuries, the impression of electric green eyes and brown hair followed Iceland, refusing to be forgotten.

It had been awhile before the young nation-child had understood that the men had come to his land for a purpose; to please and praise a power beyond his understanding at the time. They came from the south, and had apparently never travelled that far north before, hoping only for more solitude to worship in. They had not been intending to find a boy lying down on the shores of the foreign land.

But the green-eyed man had always been clear that he and his companions would leave; that as soon as they completed their praise, they would leave him to the mercy of the land. His fellow travelers had frowned at that, unhappy with leaving a child to certain death. _Cruel_, they called the man. How could he so callously leave a mere toddler without any hope of survival? But the leader had been adamant, insisting that the boy would be able to fend for himself, and that it would do no good to coddle him like a sentimental mother.

Yet Iceland had felt no anger towards the man for saying such things, for he could always see the pain in the lines in his face, and the compassion in the drooping of his eyes, despite its absence in his words.

And so he smiled at the men as they left the land, and he assumed that would be the last of them.

But they returned.

And his green-eyed man had come back only a few years after his first visit, growling about a terrible brother and the brutal journey to his land. And Iceland had hugged his green-eyed man, ignoring the scowl on his face, because the man had stroked his white-blond hair, and promised to mentor the boy until his next departure, and that suited him just fine.

The man had taught him simple skills, like how to fight, how to build a basic shelter, and how to use his anger to his advantage. Funnily enough, he never tried to teach the boy about religion, stating that the boy should stay 'free of such polluting thoughts', a statement that made his travelling companions grimace in disapproval.

Iceland grew used to fall asleep while curled up against the man's side, and listen to soft humming sounds that warmed his insides in ways that their fires did not. He ate the unusual food they generously gave him, and even tried to listen to the preachings the religious men tried to teach him. The green-eyed man would always interfere, though, still adamant that the child mustn't be influenced by such ideas.

And so time passed, with a little boy waiting by a shore for a green-eyed man to return with his boats and incredible wisdom and knowledge. And every time he hugged the man, he would get his hair ruffled fondly in return.

But then, several decades after their first meeting, the green-eyed man came again, with anger and hopelessness and heartbreak and many other saddening emotions in his face and spirit.

And it was with disbelief that the boy listened to his green-eyed man explain that men from another land were coming to settle the boy's land, and that the man wouldn't be able to return anymore, because these warriors were vicious and terrible, and he couldn't wish that upon his people when they had only come to the land to pray.

So he hugged his mentor, his friend, his everything-in-the-whole-world, and buried his head in the man's shoulder. He listened to the man whisper a promise in his ear that he would someday reunite with his "little brother". And Iceland knew the man did not take promises lightly, so he had agreed, and waved goodbye as he watched them float away in the never-ending water.

He didn't see his green-eyed man for centuries to come.

* * *

The boy had grown, had seen his land oppressed and absorbed and torn away from him so many times he'd acquired a slight numbness towards it all.

But then it was World War Two, and a man with the same electric green eyes strode into his land, and he had hope once more of seeing his brother again. And Iceland, wonderfully, _beautifully independent _Iceland, had rushed to his capital to welcome back his brother after so many centuries of not seeing him.

But it wasn't his brother. Of _course_ it wasn't.

And he felt his heart break, because after all the oppression and confusion and bloody war and just... _blood_, he _still_ wasn't able to see his brother and hear his gruff voice and feel his solid, warm body again.

But it was his brother's brother. And the hope returned full-strength. The nation proudly called himself _England_, but Iceland didn't care for him too much. The man was too arrogant, and too demanding, and he'd bristled when Iceland didn't salute to him. And the man seemed to speak to thin air, and it unnerved Iceland enough to give the man a wide berth.

When he'd whispered tentatively about a man with electric-green eyes and wild brown hair and a temper of epic proportions, England's eyes softened fractionally, and the man mentioned an older brother who fit the description.

_Ireland_.

And it was only after much begging and wheedling, and agreeing to put an Allied base in Reykjavík, that England had returned to Iceland, pulling in tow a cranky and unhappy elder brother. And Iceland had stood at the same shores from all those years ago, and glanced in front of him to see his puffin waiting stoically as well. And the boat arrived.

Ireland didn't have time to look around before a body slammed into him, arms wrapping themselves around his torso. And he would've shouted at whoever had done so, but then a lock of white-blond hair blew into his face by a passing breeze.

And Ireland sighed as his big brother stroked his hair.


End file.
